


Carry On

by E M Pink (quivo)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Masturbation, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-01
Updated: 2006-06-01
Packaged: 2019-09-20 22:55:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quivo/pseuds/E%20M%20Pink
Summary: There are many things that Draco is not, and some that he thinks he is not. What Potter has to do with it is quite the mystery.(Old challenge fic for the defuncthp disseminationcommunity.)





	1. not a wanker

**Author's Note:**

> This is one of the fics I never posted anywhere but on livejournal, afaik. It's pretty short, which is why I'm doing it next out of my backlog.
> 
> Again, this is waaaay old and uh, may not make much sense? Nothing to warn for here except for old-ass fanon, Harry's ~sassy~ daughter, and lots and lots of masturbation. Enjoy :D

He wasn’t a wanker, of course. He was a hard bastard to get around, a murderer, a poisoner, and a former Death Eater. He was a Malfoy (only just. And only because he’d been a murderer, and one of his victims had been his crazy father), and he _was_ blond, but –

Not a wanker.

So it was hard for Draco to explain to himself why on earth he was in his room that morning, furiously tossing off to the memory of black hair. Not inky black – black brown. Black-brown hair that came attached to green eyes and a narrow mouth and uncertain smile, all of which came attached to Harry Potter. 

_Not a wanker_ , he thought, shivering as he worked his fingers up and down, spreading moisture with a practised hand, eyelids falling of their own accord as his other hand made its salacious little trip back, way, waaay back. Draco remembered how he discovered wanking like this some time ago, how he’d blushed and spluttered while his gay friends roared and whooped and openly touched themselves, how it had suddenly occurred to him that Potter looked a lot like one of those grunting men on the flimsy screen up front, and how he’d begun to wonder what Potter’s cock would look like, thrusting in and out of such a forbidden, tight –

“Fuck…” Draco came silently, head lolling back onto his thoroughly mussed pillow as his hips thrust up and up and up, and suddenly his cock was quiescent again, having succeeded in betraying him. That was what it felt like, each time.

Draco grimaced, reaching over for his wand, so he could clean himself – “ _Sano_ …” – up. And yet, even on the days when he didn’t quite wish he’d studied Potter’s arse more diligently or wonder when, if ever, the bastard would finally show his stupidly handsome face here, where he belonged. Draco smiled to himself, at the arrogance of that statement. Belonged, indeed. Here at Hogwarts. Nonsense – he remembered how perfectly Potter had aped the very meaning of a sore thumb the last time he’d somehow made the trip to mourn with Granger when Severus had finally seen fit (the bastard) to succumb to his ever-failing health. Draco rolled his eyes – perhaps the news of his appointment as Head of House was really getting to his head, now –

“Professor Malfoy!” Draco groaned, letting his head thump back onto the pillows, but – “Professor Malfoy!” – whoever it was wasn’t going away. “Professor – ”

“ _Tempus_ ,” Draco snapped, wringing the numbers out of his wand, suppressing a sigh at the time ( _6:09, for fuck’s sake_ ) as he rolled out of bed and into his soft dressing gown, the cries of “Professor!” accompanying him all the way to the door – “Yes? What is it, and why’s it happening so early in the morning?” 

The door opened to reveal a panicked-looking fourth year whose name he hoped was Camilla, still clad in her own dressing gown. “Oh, Professor, I’m so sorry – ”

“You’ll be sorrier in a minute if you don’t tell me what it is, Camilla,” Draco snapped, in no mood to hear out her pathetic apologies. The damned girl was _always_ apologising for something – “Oh, speak up, will you?”

“Pro- Headmistress McGonagall wants to see you in her – ”

“In her office? Splendid.” Draco rolled his bleary eyes, already storing up curses in his mind that he could rain down on his godforsaken employer’s stupid old head. Eventually. “Back to bed, immediately.”

“Yes, sir, Professor Mal – ”

Draco shut the door. He wasn’t going to listen to or even remember her apology, and anyway it was far too early to be _nice_.

*   *   *

Shaking himself out of the doze that had crept up on him on the blasted revolving stairway, Draco groped for the handle on the all-too-familiar door, then suddenly stilled. It sounded like a man in there, and to his best knowledge –

Eyes widening, Draco took a step back, blasted the door open, cast a room-wide _Petrificus totalis_ , and –

Promptly wished he could sink into the floor. Oh, there was McGonagall all right, he’d managed her, but something that looked remarkably like a human head was floating oddly in her fireplace –

Oh _no_.

“ _Finite_ ,” Draco said hastily, feeling his unshaven cheeks betray him as McGonagall’s look of consternation turned into a steely glare. Refusing to gulp in equal consternation, Draco decided his attention was best bestowed elsewhere, namely on the still-floating – head. God, that couldn’t be comfortable, or conducive to one’s health… “Um – _finite_. _Finite_ , dammit – ”

The fire suddenly went out, making the head – “Oh _Merlin_ – ” – disappear with it. “Oh, my god, who was that? I didn’t – ”

But the fire in the hearth was roaring Floo-green again, and a sooty head was appearing in the flames. A thoroughly angry-looking sooty head, that was now glaring at Draco with oddly green eyes that –

To his right, McGonagall sighed. “I don’t suppose it would mean any harm, coming in now. At the very least, Professor Malfoy here,” Draco could practically feel the scorn pouring on him, itching all the way across his neck, “will protect me. Come through, Potter.”

Draco spluttered and stepped back, but –

“Oh, for fuck’s sake – ”

Not in time. Potter practically jumped on him in endeavouring (in what Draco thought was an unnecessarily hasty manner) to move away from the still-roaring green flames, and – “Dad! Dad, I’m okay – ”

“Sorry,” Draco tried to say, but it got lost in the looking at Potter’s hair and sooty glare, and in staring down (away) at the small, cross-looking girl now in front of them.

“Dad, I’m _fine_ ,” she snapped, her accent curiously –

“Please take a seat, Harry,” McGonagall said sharply from nearby, and somehow that meant all three of them grimly manoeuvring around each other so that they could somehow sit in the two – no, three stout chairs in front of McGonagall’s desk. “I _am_ sorry I had to keep you waiting for such a time – security, you know.”

“What, him?” Draco tried not to bristle at Potter’s cynical tone and even more derisive snap of the head in his direction, but (even worse) all that not-bristling and calmly glaring frostily at Potter somehow translated into his cock taking quite the interest –

“I have no time for this,” McGonagall warned sharply. Surprisingly, Potter sighed.

Turned a little towards Draco – “I suppose I should apologise. We – we had a rough trip…”

“From China?” Draco said, trying to sound knowledgeable and sympathetic, but somehow only sounding like himself. Barely civil. Potter’s eyes narrowed at him, and the little girl fidgeted, staring unabashedly at Draco’s face. Somehow, it made him want to blush.

Thank god _that_ had gone years ago.

“Beijing,” Potter said finally, his mouth curling around the word in a disturbingly smooth, savvy way, a way that made Draco’s dirty-minded little bastard of a penis start thinking and wondering – “Bloody awful, Apparating cross-country this time of year – ”

“Why cross-country?” Draco said, trying not to let it come out as a sneer, but – “Surely – ”

“Mai Li can’t stand Portkeys,” Potter said, his voice softening a little as he looked away (Draco’s cock protested) at the squirming, staring girl, “her magic reacts with them, or something.”

“Well, then, Harry,” McGonagall said briskly, suddenly beginning to open and shut drawers, obviously in search of something. “Least I can do is give you your keys – ”

“You use keys?” Draco blinked. Surely that wasn’t the Potter he knew. Potter didn’t talk that condescending, not-quite-sneering way – Potter was blunt. If he sneered, you could see it miles away – and Draco wasn’t quite sure where he’d learned to wrap that soft mouth around Beijing in such a way that –

“The castle isn’t accepting any more magic, as you already know,” McGonagall said, sighing as she produced one of the disparaged items. “We’re really in quite a state – ”

“Ah,” Potter said, taking the key with the same look on his face. Draco rolled his eyes at himself, inwardly – he was so stupid, and so unfamiliar with the bastard’s reaction. See, that was concern, not disdain – “About how long do you have till term end again?”

“About a month,” McGonagall replied, snapping the still-open drawers shut with a sharp flick of her wand. “And then, of course, there are the summer holidays, if you are not able to – ”

Potter smiled. “The castle will be fine by that point. I promise.” Draco tried not to stare, tried not to think about the darker edge to that old, familiar Potter-smile, and found that he couldn’t. 

Ah well. He wasn’t a wanker, but – that smile. Hmm. He’d have to remember it.

*    *    *

“So, Malfoy,” Potter said. Briskly. His hair was all over the place, as usual, and his robes were nowhere to be seen – all he had on was a hopelessly indecent woollen tunic and faded jeans. Faded jeans that, to Draco’s secret irritation, refused to do anything but hang and obscure the slight curves he knew had to be there. Draco kept his face stony, calm – he knew what Potter was trying to do, to keep his own pathetic mind off the sheer number of gaping, pointing students, and he would grudgingly help, but that didn’t mean he had to approve of what the little – “Draco?”

Draco practically jumped out of his seat. “What the fuck?”

Potter stared, then allowed that smile (though it probably wasn’t allowed) to curl around his face. Draco coloured and hunched over his meal, just a little, firmly on the defensive. It was such a sneaky smile. “Knew that’d get your attention,” his smiling enemy muttered, scraping his fork around his plate.

Plebian. “I – ” _Didn’t know you knew my first name_.

“No harm meant,” Potter said, now toying pensively with a sausage. Draco looked away, hoping that his own bleeding sausage would get a hold of itself. His eyes skimmed the Slytherin table, helping him to calm down – out of all the other houses, Slytherin had the least amount of staring fools. It made him feel good, and made his cock pipe down, just a bit. 

Potter nudged him (almost sharply. A sort of bold elbow in the side, really), and Draco sighed, conceding breakfast as lost. “Breakfast feels like it’s gotten earlier,” he lamented, now cutting his thin bacon sandwich into smaller and smaller pieces. Draco stared down, then found himself asking –

“Do you know you’re cutting your sandwich into…?”

Potter sighed. “It’s a habit. I can’t – ” he licked his fork. By _Merlin_ , that wasn’t fair – “ – can’t help it.” He stabbed his fork into a piece and popped it into his mouth. 

_Neither can I_ , Draco thought mutinously, _but you don’t see me palming myself in the Great Hall, do you?_

“I just – I’m so used to chopsticks, now,” Potter went on, licking, stabbing, popping, all in some sort of weird, automated sequence. “Eating with my hands – just feels a bit unnatural.”

“Eating with one’s hands _is_ unnatural,” Draco pointed out, ignoring the part of him that yearned, simply yearned to see Potter lick something off his largeish fingers. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to eat a sandwich with them, or – ”

Another lick. “Makes no difference to me, unfortunately.” A pause. “Do you think anyone would mind if I changed – ”

“Suit yourself, Potter,” Draco snapped, turning his attention back to his own neglected plate. “Show-off,” he added, under his breath, as Potter sighed and didn’t even bring out his bloody wand to make some show of being _normal_ , just stared the poor fork and knife into polished wooden sticks that Draco sort of knew vaguely how to use. 

Potter sighed, and began eating again. He _was_ much faster now, of course, but that only seemed to mean the licking phase was a little longer than usual. 

After a minute or two of helpless staring and even more helpless cock-taking-notice-ing, Draco rose, mumbled excuses and left, without a look back.

When he realised he had a question or two (where on earth Potter’s little midget daughter was, for a start) he’d rather been wanting to ask, Draco paused and turned back. Walked back, all with a view of Potter’s fingers wrapped so lovingly around his chopsticks that it was criminal.

“Potter? Where’s your daughter, anyway?” Conversation seemed to still behind him, but Draco didn’t care. It was a valid question – everyone knew Potter wasn’t quite right in the head, after that nasty business with his wife…and that poor little girl might be tied up, bound and gagged (a little like Draco might want to be) in Potter’s rooms –

“Oh, Mai?” Potter nodded curtly. “Apparition hangover. Flooing in didn’t help at all, either – I just told her to have the house elves – ”

“You left your child alone in your rooms?” inquired a rather scandalised-looking McGonagall from nearby. Potter frowned, pausing, chopsticks shifting around the perfect little sandwich-square hovering between plate and (delectable) mouth.

“I know.” He ate the square, looking remarkably diffident for someone who was now quite in danger of being lectured by Minerva McGonagall in full self-righteous mode. “She’s an independent little thing, I assure you – used to bully everyone about in Quang Jiong, really.”

“Really?” Draco said, wishing he had something else to say. Potter eyed him with a look Draco wished he knew the meaning of.

“Really.” The smile that accompanied that mocking little word was the last straw, precipitating Draco out of the Great Hall in rather a hurry to get to his classroom.

So he could – _buttons off, robes off, hand on fuck_ yes _, that tunic – oh – and his tongue_ –

Some minutes later, Draco reached for his wand, and, cleaning himself (and the nearby desk) up, decided to admit defeat.

He was a wanker.


	2. not a friend to  children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't ask me what I was thinking when naming/summarizing these parts 😂

_Children_ , Draco mused to himself, pausing calmly in the shadows of the doorway, eyes scanning the classroom. _Also known as_ –

“Fucking shut up, Williams – ”

 _Sprogs_ –

“If I sit by her again, I’ll embarrass myself, I just know it – ”

 _Kids. Goat kids, that is_ –

“Hi, Barry – I was wondering, you, me, H-h-hogsmeade…?”

 _Infidels_ –

“And I could see down Professor Brown’s _shirt!”_

 _Demon spawn_ –

“Have you seen Potter’s kid? I heard she knows how to burn things with her _eyes_ – ”

 _Thoroughly excitable, malleable little idiots. With dung for brains_.

Draco allowed himself a grin. And _that_ was just his mad father’s definition – nothing to talk of Severus’ –

“Good morning, class.” Students squeaked, chairs were scraped back, and the chorus –

“Good morning, Professor Malfoy, sir!” – began. Draco shut the door behind him physically – _always good, keeping them on their toes_ – and allowed the almost friendly smile to remain on his face. This class, a conglomeration of fourth years from every house, knew well enough by now that whatever expression he had on was not to be trusted. Except, perhaps, one of pure fury – Draco never bothered to have that one on unless the feelings behind it were at least halfway up to snuff.

“Please sit down, class.” Draco made his way to the desk, threading through the desks of frightened students without fear of pause or distraction. He’d taken especial care to punish the first few fools that had thought him a somewhat easy target hard enough to make even strict old Vector show her jerky sympathy for his victims, so now, the only interruptions in Draco’s class time were the occasional crying fit or the sound of a student fainting. Apart from that, it was the sound of his own voice and the timid questions and slightly less timid discussion he forced his students into at the end of every class that dominated the poky little room. “If you’ll submit your assignments, please.”

A flurry of students rising and jostling to the front momentarily broke the silence, but after a studied look in one or two directions, the flurry became a somewhat calmer line of nervous students. Draco watched as they all dropped their light sheaves of parchment on his desk, occasionally adding a comment at the right moments.

“Straighten your tie, Williams. Is that supposed to be the assignment I set you, Miss King? Say no more, my dear – a rewrite should be perfect. And you, Jaeger, what do you mean by that roll of parchment?” Everyone paused, anticipating the outburst. Jaeger, a hopelessly intelligent young fool, flushed and mumbled something like “parchment all gone”. “If I ask you to repeat yourself more than once, Jaeger – ”

“I’m so sorry, Professor! Professor Binns had us write this essay, and it was so long, I didn’t have enough cut parchment to – ”

“I am afraid,” Draco said, shaking his head with a rueful sigh, “that such things are far beyond my ken. If it were anyone else – ”

“Oh sir, _please!”_

“But of course, interrupting me has hardly helped your case.” Draco smiled at the horrified looking boy. “Detention. Tonight at seven should do – ”

“Oh, but _sir_ , the Slytherin team – ”

“Will make do.” Draco sat down in his chair, maintaining eye contact with the hapless Jaeger all the time. “I trust that I make myself clear.”

Jaeger let out something between a moan of dismay and a cry for help. “Professor – ”

“Oh, you must be so weary from standing about in such a manner – what can I have been thinking? All of you, sit down.” Uneasy murmurs ran through the class, but it was a mark of just how well they all know Draco that everyone still standing was seated in five minutes. Assignments were normally submitted at the beginning of class, with no exceptions. Draco purposely made getting them to him at any time but that a Herculean task, with office hours that changed every week, therefore enforcing order using the most simple and least time-consuming method available to him as a professor. Sometimes, like today, some idiot would forget how things were done and so imperil the marks of half his or her classmates by forcing them to wait after class to try desperately to hand in their assignments, or suffer receiving no marks at all.

It made for a rather amusing fifteen minutes, in which everyone whose work had gone unsubmitted glared at Jaeger, and the little fool sulked in his seat, and Draco pretended not to notice anything except the papers on his desk.

Of course, that pleasant fiction was soon over. Draco stood abruptly, noting with grim pleasure the way half of the class jerked to attention in their seats. He could almost hear the thoughts going through their brain – _oh no, Professor Malfoy’s happy today_ …

Draco smiled, and, for the next hour, added to the overflowing stock of memories of exactly how nasty a Professor of Muggle Studies could be.

*   *   *

It followed, therefore, that after Draco’s first three classes went off without a hitch, one of the ones to come would blow up in his face, or…

Or this. 

“Oh, Draco, there you are,” a horribly familiar voice remarked lazily, making him jump as he spun round to see – “Hope I’m not disturbing…?” 

Potter was in his office. And in that damned tunic, again.

“No, Potter,” Draco found himself saying, woodenly. “Not – not at all.” Potter nodded briskly, then – oh, good sweet _Merlin_ – produced a banana. “P-potter? Is there something you wish to su- talk about? With me?”

Potter stared at him, pausing in the act of peeling the firm fruit. “Obviously. You said you weren’t busy – ”

“And I’m _not_ ,” Draco said, repressing a gulp, trying to convey that peeling that banana in that manner in his presence was not at all – “Spit it out, for goodness’ sake.”

“In a minute, sorry,” Potter said, looking the exact opposite as he slinked – no, walked, he was only walking, Draco was just hallucinating – over to Draco’s slightly untidy desk. Draco noted bitterly that the bastard had somehow found a pair of more form-fitting jeans ( _why no robes? Improper, smarmy_ git) and chosen to inflict them on him. With a peeled banana in tow.

Joy.

“I’m just so hungry,” Potter lamented, shifting heavily on Draco’s desk, giving new life to several long-dead fantasies Draco had put to violent death at least twelve years ago, when Potter had finally seen fit to settle down and marry that – “Even examining the spells in this old place takes it out of a body.”

“This old place, Potter?” Draco laughed harshly. His nerves were on fire – not a good time to be in here, talking to a banana-eating – no, a banana- _licking_ Potter, and yet – “I have something to take care of – I won’t be a minute, really – ”

Lick. Slurp. Shrug. “Suit yourself.” Draco did, heading for the door to his storeroom with almost indecent haste, because there was something about the look in Potter’s eyes that might possibly be knowing, and his brain was already too far gone to wrap itself around such an awful concept –

 _Robes off_ –

Though the look would probably –

 _Cock out_ –

Torment him far into the night –

“Oh, fuck,” Draco rasped, his brain garbling warnings at him that he understood with every fibre of his being, but was disregarding, hand pulling away on his tortured, throbbing cock, hips shifting stupidly as his mouth hung slightly open in unsubtle mimicry of what Potter’s mouth was – _oh god_ – doing out there in his – _fuck_ – office. Draco paused to shove down his trousers just that bit more and part his legs so his other hand could reach behind, maybe, because this little wank was suddenly requiring the insertion of a helpful finger in a dirty place.

Draco licked two fingers, hard, his breath coming harshly as he reached back then inserted one, then – “Oh, fuck…” – another –

And, of course, it was then that the door burst open.

Draco slumped, head whipping round to see, as he hoped and saw –

Oh, good _god_. The little Potter was staring at him with round eyes even as her father, still outside, said something of ‘letting Draco alone until he’s done’. 

Her mouth fell open into a round, Pottery little ‘o’ as Draco painfully removed the fingers and tried to hike up his trousers and cover himself up, his breath coming painfully fast and hard and embarrassed and _afraid_ –

“Mai? Come here, all right? Draco’s busy, I told you.”

“Yeah,” the girl said, stepping away, her cheeks now choosing to cover themselves in one of the deepest blushes Draco mournfully thought he’d never seen on a child. A child about to betray him, to betray his – oh, his perversion. “I’m just – ” Dared he use a Memory Charm? 

_No, I deserve to be fucking caught, so fucking stupid_ –

“Quick, gimmeajar,” she suddenly said, her whisper low and shaky, but no less fierce. Draco, now clothed, awkwardly levitated the first jar to his left off the shelf and into her twitching hands, wondering if she was going to stone him with it. Likely – the calculating look in her eyes told him just how much of an inventive thing she might be -

“Mai? Get _over_ here – ”

“Yes, Dad,” she said meekly, unscrewing the jar and boldly dipping her hand in to retrieve one of the snakes – _one of the snakes?_ Draco rose from his despondent seat on the tiny little storeroom chair, but it was too late, she was leaving with it, and oh god, if it bit her, Potter would –

Draco gulped as he shakily slammed the cover back on the small jar, detaining the other restive snakes within. The phrase ‘skin him alive’ came to mind, but didn’t fit the bill – he’d heard just how much was left of Rabastan Lestrange after Potter had caught him. He’d heard that Moody had fainted on seeing the carcass. 

Closing his eyes with a groan, Draco began to try to tally his offences, just to see if they could somehow be explained, or pleaded off, or _something_.

It wasn’t good.

First, wanking in the storeroom – disreputable, and highly suspect, considering that Potter was in the next room eating a fucking _banana_. 

Second, being caught at said wanking by Potter’s Little Angel. Draco closed his eyes. He’d briefly envisioned being caught, but certainly not by _that_ Potter…

And, thirdly, stupidly handing Potter’s daughter a jar of tiny, poisonous snakes he kept in his storeroom partly because Severus had given them to him as a drunken present (one of the few presents he’d ever gotten from Severus, truth be told) and partly because the snakes were too dangerous to try to frighten his students with – there was always one fool who would open the jar and be bitten, and the poison was at its most rapid in the summer, when the little beasts were most active.

He was going to _die_.

“What’s that, Mai? Oh – oooh – ” Draco paused at the door, heart beating hard, trying to tell himself that Potter’s voice hadn’t turned nasty yet, and that he was safe enough to go out. As it was, the sudden spate of hissing was the only thing that got him out, as well as the thought that the stupid little girl might be being bitten to death as of now, and how much it would help his case if he tried to protect her from it, at the very least.

The door propelled him out into a very odd scene.

Potter was kneeling before his daughter and speaking very fast in what Draco could only term as Parseltongue. The girl’s back was to him, and god but it looked bad, the way Potter’s eyelashes were fluttering, almost in dismay –

“Calm down, they’ll sort of listen to me,” Draco ordered, striding forward. “Severus had this spell – ”

“It’s gorgeous,” Potter whispered, his words slightly slurred, and suddenly Draco could see that he wasn’t stroking the girl’s arm to keep her from shrieking or panicking – no, he was trying to coax the tiny snake onto his own arm, and looking fairly put out that he couldn’t. “Draco – ”

“It didn’t bite you? Didn’t bite her?” Draco demanded, trying to see what on earth the stupid little sot was _doing_ to herself with the snake now, but prevented from seeing much of anything by the fall of her dark hair. 

“’Course not,” the girl mumbled, straightening a bit so Draco could now see the snake slithering rather vainly up and down her arm. “Just told it it was pretty, they all like to hear that – ”

“That’s not true,” Potter said sternly, rising a little jerkily to his feet in a way that made the slightly crouched Draco take more notice than was healthy of the way the faded blue fabric shifted over his crotch. “If a snake really wants a piece of you, Mai, telling it that won’t – ”

“But Su-mai didn’t want a piece of me, Dad. Did you, Su-su – ”

Potter sighed and gave Draco a rueful, parent-y sort of look as the girl began to coo hissy little nothings at the snake in the most disturbing way. Draco looked away, still feeling horribly embarrassed despite the fact that Potter probably couldn’t see through doors or even into his mind, and didn’t know what had really gone on inside that –

“You said something about Snape giving you a spell to control them,” Potter said, startling him out of his thoughts. “Did he give them to you, or…?”

“Severus gave them to me, yes,” Draco admitted tightly, feeling defensive. “I just – she was interested, so I didn’t think – ”

“Obviously,” Potter said wryly, cutting him off. “But ‘interested’ hardly cuts it now – I’d expect a fair row if you try to take that snake from her now.”

“You mean – ”

“Her mum was the only one that could control her, I think,” Potter admitted, ignoring the scowl directed his way by his daughter, who, though obviously absorbed in the snake, was still openly listening to their conversation. “Are you letting her have it, or…?”

“I suppose it wouldn’t be a trial,” Draco said slowly, realisation starting to fill him now. Potter laughed and patted his arm and made him sit down and listen to his complaints about how snooty the castle was being to him, and how much soap Mai had filled their bathroom with on a whim earlier that morning. By the time Potter left, Draco had resorted to using a handy spell to cover up his undaunted erection, and was trying very hard not to blush too much or look in the girl’s direction, the idea of what he’d just been doing to himself very much uppermost in his mind even as Potter insisted on shaking his hand (oh god, where they’d been) as he bid him goodbye. 

The slightly sympathetic look he got from the girl as she left embarrassed him, but it had been followed by a rather smug one as she looked down at her snake on her way out, and that was more than all right, in Draco’s book. What he was worried about was how long it would take for her (or Potter) to demand the rest of the ones he had.

Not that he wouldn’t give them up, to make sure the girl didn’t tell. Draco locked his door securely with two spells before even trying to open his trousers again, feeling defeated. It did occur to him, as his mind descended into the indulgent blankness that presaged the end to this particular painful bout of arousal.

There was a reason why he didn’t like children.


	3. not one to pry

For the next few weeks, Potter seemed to be everywhere, sporting a thoughtful expression and tight jeans that Draco quickly grew to hate. Breakfasts became tests of endurance and sangfroid; lunches and dinners a sheer measurement of how irritatingly convinced Draco’s cock seemed to be of Potter’s lusciousness. 

Now, Draco, being a fairly sensible, logical man, could have forgiven each and every one of those sins, no matter how many self-cleaning charms he had to cast, or how many times he bit his lip straight through for lack of silencing charms. After all, Potter had a job to do – one that involved roaming the castle at odd hours and generally showing his irritatingly attractive and perpetually stubbly face in places he was not wanted, per se.

But to show up in a staff meeting? One that Draco had deemed perfectly safe to wear a more relaxed (and therefore, more dangerously revealing) version of his usual uniform of robes-and-trousers-and-shirt to? Unspeakable.

“ – so the castle should be ready for that end-of-term party you were planning, Minerva,” Potter said, winding up his speech with a smile that dazzled Draco, enough to make him cross his legs and itch to use a sobering charm down below, adverse consequences and potential embarrassment be damned. 

Thankfully, Potter seemed to be leaving, after another dazzling smile in the direction of the faintly blushing Headmistress, who, after a stern look round the rest of the fondly smiling room, cleared her throat and continued with the rest of the agenda. Draco sighed in relief, saved by departure, and was just about to finally, safely uncross his legs when his name suddenly came up.

“…by Professor Malfoy. All concerns about Mr. Potter’s activities should henceforth be silenced, so Draco can go about his business with ease –”

Draco started horribly. No, it couldn’t be. She couldn’t be asking him to, not like this, not after that emphatic conversation he’d had with her on the matter earlier that day. “Excuse me, I don’t believe I –”

“You mean you don’t remember promising to do a little judicious enquiry as to Mr. Potter’s plans after term end, Draco?”

Draco froze. “Well –”

“I assure you I do, Draco. Rest assured, I’m only making sure that certain members of the staff,” McGonagall raked her steely eye over a rather abashed Morag Macdougal, who Draco had heard repeatedly and doggedly questioning Potter as to where he would be gallivanting off to after his stay at Hogwarts, “allow you to achieve success.”

Draco nodded then, knowing by the combative and even resentful looks on the faces of his peers that now would be the worst time to openly go against the Headmistress on what every one of them believed was an important topic. McGonagall gave him a rather shrewd smile and went on with the agenda of the meeting, while Draco bit his lip and tried to look and act sanguine as Morag gave him impertinent looks and gossiped with Pince, her next-door neighbour. It was some time before McGonagall finally began to round things up, and by the time she got round to it, Draco could tell that half of the staff had probably forgotten about the little issue of delegation, but would likely be easily made to remember it all the same, if McGonagall wished it. 

Therefore, when McGonagall said the usual words of dismissal – “This meeting is hereby adjourned –” – Draco was not half as pleased or relieved as he had the right to be. McGonagall’s words, as always, caused a quiet adult stampede from the staff room. Draco, usually one of the first out the door, sat as if immobilised in his chair, watching his escaping colleagues with pure jealousy.  

Out of the corner of his twitching eye, Draco saw McGonagall began to shuffle away her notes, whispering to lingering staff members who wanted a word and shooting hinting looks in his direction. Draco had no eyes for her, however – for the moment, all he had eyes for were the averted glances of Sibyll Trelawney (a very, very unlikely friend he’d somehow managed to make) and Rolanda Hooch, who were just leaving. Betraying him. Damning him to his fate –

Just as Rolanda ducked out of the room, seemingly absorbed in perusing the lining of her sleeve, McGonagall interrupted Draco’s self-pitying inward tirade with a loud snort. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Draco – it’s hardly the end of the world –”

“Fine words from a woman who didn’t even give me a chance to _reply_ to your supposedly simple request, Headmistress,” was his frosty reply. Frosty because he was frozen. To the chair. 

McGonagall sighed, coming over to sit beside him in a gesture that, though unusually warm for her, left him cold. “I’ve tried to talk to him once, you know,” she said quietly. “He just laughed in my face.”

Draco couldn’t help laughing then, harshly. “Well, I suppose that’s Potter for you –”

“For me, yes,” McGonagall said, interrupting, “not for _you_.” Draco sighed, rolling his eyes – he’d heard this stupid argument more times than he could count, earlier on – “He always takes you seriously, you know. That was why I thought –”

“ – to announce to everyone that I was going to try to get through to him, to make it official without asking me,” Draco interrupted, through gritted teeth. “I know exactly what you think you’re doing, _Headmistress_.” 

Unfortunately, the thick sarcasm in his tone didn’t seem to even register with her. “Well, now that we understand each other…” she rose, dusting herself off primly. “Get to it, then.”

Draco, suppressing a very, very rude comment, finally rose and stiffly left the room. Oh, he’d get to it, indeed. He’d take every fucking bit of satisfaction in reporting to McGonagall the exact pitch of Potter’s voice as he laughed in Draco’s face.

*    *    *

That evening, it was entirely Potter’s fault that Draco finally bumped into him just outside the idiot’s temporary office. Which was why Draco was surprised when Potter turned on him immediately, catching hold of his arm and dragging him into the office in an achingly hurried way, reminiscent of –

“All right, spit it out,” Potter snapped, cutting off the tender beginnings of yet another Potter fantasy. “And don’t give me that look – you’ve been following me all day, and I’m sick of waiting for you to –”

“Fine! McGonagall wants to know why you’re not staying.”

Potter paused, looking oddly bewildered. “What do you mean, not staying? I could’ve stayed in Hogsmeade, I’ll have you know, and I didn’t –”

“Not that, you idiot,” Draco said, ignoring the way his heart jumped a little, at how close he’d been to not being able to see Potter at breakfast for the last month. “She wants to know why you don’t want to stay on in Britain. Or enroll Mai in Hogwarts – you know, put down creepy little black-haired, four-eyed roots and whatnot.” Potter scowled a little, and Draco could have sighed for satisfaction – this was going to be so easy –

“Weeell,” Potter said, slowly, “I’m not too sure, actually.” Draco blinked. Potter eyed him, an uncomfortably calculating expression on his face as he began to edge closer to – no, wait, Draco was only imagining that. Or was he…? “So far, I don’t really have much of an incentive to stay, let’s put it that way.” 

It was a full three minutes before Draco was sure he would not betray himself by responding to _that_ with innuendo, but Potter didn’t seem to mind the delay. In fact, he really did seem to be shifting just a little closer to –

“Stop that,” Draco blurted out, instead of the carefully neutral question of what Potter would consider as an incentive to stay. Potter blinked, and Draco suddenly realised he was close enough that his lashes were visible – “Er – incentives? You were saying?” It was all Draco could do not to step back when Potter reached out a hot hand and poked at something on Draco’s neck. “Potter –”

“Sorry – thought you had a mark,” was the quick answer. It was too much to hope that it was insincere, and anyway Draco would be the last person to pry for answers in that manner. Besides, Potter was withdrawing, taking his hot hand away with him, which was both good and bad, but better than Draco embarrassing himself by asking if he really meant the quick touch to the neck inappropriately. Potter sighed forcefully then, drawing Draco’s eyes back to his soft-looking lips. “Incentives, eh? There are just so many things wrong with the idea of staying, for me. For a start, Mai’s happy here, and –”

“Isn’t that an incentive to stay?” Draco pointed out, ignoring Potter’s huff as he was cut off. “Well forgive me for pointing out the obvious, but –”

“You don’t know that girl,” Potter said darkly, shifting from foot to foot, “She hated Beijing –” _Not now, not now_ , Draco hissed inwardly, fighting the sibilance of that word – “ – from the first moment she set foot in the place, and now, nothing compares to anything we had there.” Potter’s tone began to take on a distinct note of complaint. “She’s such a contrary little bint sometimes, I half want to just leave her with Hermione and run off to Russia –”

“Why?” Draco asked, trying to focus on what Potter was saying instead of how he was saying it and how his lips looked like they – oh wait, Potter was looking confused, which had to mean – “I mean, Russia – why Russia?”

“I don’t know,” Potter said, shrugging. “Anyway, so Mai likes it here, so it’s a no. And you know McGonagall would be on at me to teach something if I lived in even a five hundred mile radius of Hogwarts – I just don’t see the appeal of being here again, to be quite honest. Makes me feel like a student again.” Potter looked away, his face strangely tight. “I hated that.”

“Funny, you seemed to enjoy yourself just fine,” Draco said irritably, suddenly quite unable to think of anything but Potter thrusting the Quidditch Cup into the air over and over again, year after year. The image stayed even when he blinked and tried to look over at the tapestry immediately behind Potter.

Potter gave him a look. “I did, at points – won’t deny that – but god, the ‘don’t do this, Potter’ and ‘be careful, Harry’, and ‘don’t go rushing off, Potter’ and ‘we need you to do this, Potter’…Every – everyone wanted something. Required something.” Potter’s jaw tightened again. “I hated that. China’s the furthest thing away from that, for me – or, at least, it was, when –”

Draco froze. The way Potter’s voice had wavered on the last word – good Merlin, he wasn’t going to cry, was he? 

“ – when I was. When Ling…oh god.” Draco’s eyes widened. He _was_ –

But Potter, it seemed, had some composure left yet. He closed his eyes, drew in a stiff, sharp breath that sent Draco’s stomach quivering and set his fingers to itching to touch and calm and protect, and turned away. “I’m – I need to get back.” 

Back to where, he didn’t say. Draco nodded, despite knowing that Potter probably couldn’t see the gesture. He felt oddly crestfallen when Potter left immediately, not even bothering to beg Draco’s pardon for nearly crying and assaulting him with lips and Beijings and memories of the lurid, bittersweet headlines five years ago when Ling Tze Potter was killed in a targeted attack. 

Draco sighed, finally turning to head back to his office for a well-deserved brood and a glass of the strongest brandy he could dig up. There was a reason it never did to pry. Especially with Potter.

*    *    *

Unfortunately, certain persons did not see his point. The next morning, Draco found himself in the Headmistress’ office again, forging manfully through the selective retelling of last night’s horrid little conversation with Potter. As he reached the end of his little theory as to why prying with Potter failed, all efforts to the contrary, McGonagall’s lips only thinned, no sign of understanding on her face. Draco had hardly even gotten into the part where he didn’t have time to hang around and pester Potter when she finally cut him off.

“Draco, time is hardly a deterrent, especially since you claim to have already written all of your exams.” McGonagall shuffled papers importantly on her desk, and, glaring meaningfully at Draco as she did so. “You will try again.” Her tone, at that point, was non-negotiable. Draco half wanted to turn up his nose and storm out of the room in a flurry of dark robes and irate dignity, but – “Oh, it sounds exactly like he answered you in generalities, for goodness’ sake! No wonder Severus never recommended you as a spy –”

“I beg your pardon!” Draco said, his eyes widening indignantly, but there was far less passion behind his exclamation than there could have been. How was she to know that Severus had only relented when Draco promised to very quietly cede him one of the Malfoy properties in West Sussex and support the man’s infatuation with Narcissa once the war had ended? Although the latter hadn’t worked out in a big way (madness was a rather direct way of eroding one’s infatuation with someone else, obviously), Hermione still had no idea just whose house she and her four scowling children were living in. And McGonagall was quite happy to think that he lacked some sort of mysterious Spy Quality, as _that_ comment had showed.

“Draco Malfoy, do _not_ test my patience,” McGonagall snapped, eyes hard. “You will try again, before dinner tonight, or you _will_ be out of a job.”

Draco nodded then, sharply, suppressing a snort of amusement. Truly, the kerfluffle after the war had not been especially kind to his finances – why else would he be working here? – but it did still tend to amuse him to be threatened with unemployment whenever the Headmistress had reached the end of her tether. She seemed to have permanently forgotten just how well he’d survived in the Muggle world – the reason, in fact, that he’d been chosen for the post here in the first place. He was probably the only wizard in Britain that had lived so resoundingly as wizard and Muggle. As far as he was concerned, McGonagall could posture all she wanted – Draco knew he’d be able to find viable employment elsewhere. The only reason he was kowtowing _now_ , really, was because it was about Potter, who really did deserve to be pestered after weaselling so neatly out of their last talk. 

Grimacing, Draco rose from his seat in front of the still-glaring McGonagall. Now that he thought about it, he really hoped Potter hadn’t been faking throughout that scene. Apart from how disturbing the concept of him faking sorrow for his dead wife was, there was also the point where he’d poked Draco so warmly in the neck. Intent issues aside, it would be a damned shame if Potter had just conjured that up with everything else, just to set Draco on the wrong tack.

*    *    *

“You’re doing it again.” Draco looked up as blankly as he could, taking note of how much redder Potter’s eyes looked from here. The sight of Draco’s erstwhile nemesis flopping angrily into the chair beside him at his messy library table was both one that squeezed oddly at his heart and relieved some of the pressure in it. At least the git hadn’t been faking – “And now, you’re staring. Draco, just spit it out, for crying out –”

Draco spluttered for a moment, cheeks flushing slightly as Potter’s eyes pinned him down uncomfortably. God, he couldn’t think – “Are you coming to the ball? The, the end of term one?” Yes. How erudite. How _classy_. How smart.

 _There are times_ , Draco thought, watching Potter’s widening eyes with some kind of weary dread, _when I really, really outdo myself in terms of sheer_ stupidity _–_

“Well, yes,” Potter finally said, blinking hard. “Is that all?”

“No.” Draco cast about for something to say, anything to lead him into asking the dreaded McGonagall-enforced question – “Is – er – anyone you know coming? Seeing as it’s so close to your birthday and all…” Potter shook his head, looking at once irritated and amazed. “Look, it’s a legitimate question –!”

“My brother-in-law’s bringing over a few people,” Potter finally said, his tone curt. Draco tried to think about what that might mean, as it would necessarily preclude thinking about the fact that Potter was leaning over his shoulder, the warmth of his neck deliciously near Draco’s cheek. “A few people I knew in Beijing – people that knew Ling and me.” Potter’s voice stuttered most becomingly at the last phrase, but he continued on. “Why do you want to know, anyway? I doubt you’re even coming.”

 _Oh, Potter_ , Draco thought, gulping slightly, _you have no idea_ – “I’m coming,” he managed to falter in reply, “ – er, I mean, I’m going. Curious, that’s all.” When Potter withdrew somewhat, Draco couldn’t help finally allowing himself to turn slightly to see where he was going.

His heart nearly jumped out of his chest. Potter hadn’t withdrawn nearly enough to make that safe, and he was – Draco gulped again – literally within kissing distance, and smiling in a strange, triumphant way that Draco quite refused to start dissecting. Knowing him and his cock-directed brain, he’d go and think that Potter was _glad_ he was coming – going to the ball, or something.

“That’s good,” Potter said, withdrawing properly. Draco nodded, unable to trust his voice to remain steady. “That all?”

“No,” Draco forced himself to say. “Going anywhere after it? The ball, I mean –”

Potter sighed, slowly. Draco tried not to fidget. “You don’t have to say if you don’t –”

“I’m going to Holland,” Potter said, cutting him off. “Got a contract there, and everything.” Draco nodded briskly, feeling his heart start the slow plummet that heralded a night filled with drunken moping. “See you around, Draco.”

Draco gulped, then nodded again. He wished, now, that he’d never bothered to ask. 


	4. not a patient man

It was an hour and a half into the stupid, godforsaken end-of-term party, and Potter hadn’t looked at Draco once. _Once_. 

Draco could have blamed that sad fact on how large the party was, that was true. The students had turned in frightening force, as had the teachers, the promise of Potter’s (actually quite well dressed) arse too much of a draw for anyone to decline to attend in favour of hiding away to do some private mischief while everyone else was occupied in feasting and dancing away. And of course, students had told their parents and friends, as had the teachers, so there had been all sorts of (mainly unsavoury) guests turning up at the gates of Hogwarts uninvited. 

The teachers, so eager to hobnob with Potter as had not quite been possible during the term (that is, to ogle him and pester him as to his plans after term end), had roundly been pressed by a harried-looking McGonagall into deterring and turning back the most unsavoury of those uninvited guests that managed to wangle their way past the castle wards on the recently extended walkway before the gates and courtyard proper. It was only after almost an hour of getting his arse frozen off as he blasted and berated people left, right and centre that Draco had been allowed to actually join the party, and even then, the most he had done was head for the bar, ignoring or dismissing questions from students and parents alike. He’d seen Potter almost right away, and had lingered by the bar on purpose, warming up with warm, steaming cider and the occasional glass of brandy as he waited for Potter to approach.

“Poncy git,” Draco muttered to himself, as Potter’s eyes seemed to drift right over him again. It wasn’t even like he had expected anything at this party, either. The most he’d hoped for was another curt, jumbled conversation in which Potter stared at him and asked odd questions, and Draco scoffed and sneered and tried to hint at – at something. _Anything_. Potter had been increasingly agreeable to him at breakfast, and Draco, like the idiot he obviously was, had thought it a lucky break, and had even invited Potter over to his office for drinks once. And even if that had ended in both of them arguing over nothing at all and passing out in their seats halfway through Draco’s final, ranting point, it had been – well, not fun. Oddly comforting, perhaps. Oddly something, at any rate.

And yet, Potter spoke on, smiling at some irritatingly handsome Asian man that Draco hoped was not his brother-in-law, and actually responding cordially to Morag Macdougal’s shameless flirting. Draco stifled a sort of quiet snarl and just went on drinking, feeling both foolish and disappointed that he was unable to enjoy a party just because of one man.

At least Hermione wasn’t around to see his shame. Right now, she’d be standing right next to him, whispering furiously about how he was going to develop a habit if he kept on drinking at that rate. Telling him that moping over Potter wasn’t going to solve anything.

 _Only_ , Draco thought, dimly, _she doesn’t know I like him. She barely even knows I talk to him_.

Grimacing into his fifth glass of brandy, Draco tried not to think about how angry Hermione would be with him if she found out just how much he didn’t put in his letters. Why, she probably still believed he hadn’t forgiven Potter for sacrificing Draco to that horrifying (but thankfully, _thankfully_ brief) stint in Azkaban after the war because he ‘forgot’ important details about Severus’ communication system. 

Draco hurriedly finished his glass, handing it to the next house elf to walk by with an empty tray. It was time to retire to his room with a bottle – if he stayed here and watched any other people fawn over Potter (without Potter looking properly at him even once. Even once), he’d be sick.

 _Scratch that_ , Draco thought, as he tried to keep his balance while approaching the door, _I can be sick right now, Potter or no Potter_ –

As soon as he stumbled through the open doors, a warm arm suddenly appeared around his waist, making him start in surprise, but not for long. Even as he was dragged bodily into the broom closet nearest the Great Hall, Draco could make out familiar dark hair and fairly tanned skin, and worst of all, he could _smell_ –

A touch of whiskey, perhaps. But that was definitely Potter he was smelling, and those definitely seemed to be Potter’s lips meeting his ear by mistake as Potter’s hushed voice told him not to panic, and that he’d been waiting for ages to get Draco alone, and that –

Wait. Draco wasn’t _that_ drunk. “What did you just say?” he tried to demand. The results did not encourage him to repeat his question, but Draco suddenly wasn’t noticing how bloody sloshed he sounded, because there was entirely another problem arising –

Potter swam into focus, shadows cutting his face into a strange mass of darkened skin and glinting eyes, the expression of which, Draco really could not begin to make out. “I’ve, er,” Potter began, nerves beginning to show in his tone, “been wanting to talk to you, Malfoy.”

Draco straightened, ignoring the further tightening in his pants. Despite what his body thought, Potter calling him by his last name meant nothing more than a slight deepening of the distance between them tonight – nothing more than Draco might have expected, really. Which was probably why it hurt. Draco’s heart was odd, in that way, though what his heart had to do with this business it was left to be –

“Please, look at me,” Potter was saying softly, but all Draco was really hearing was the heat of his body coming closer and closer and closer and dipping into his robes like a warm tide of water. Desire clenched firmly in Draco’s gut, and for a long moment, he could hardly think anything but the fact that Potter’s hand was clenched in his robes. At his shoulder, too, which said a lot for Potter’s self control if this situation was truly what Draco was starting to think it was. 

Thankfully, luckily, that was not all. Potter had somehow seen fit to draw closer in the space of Draco’s bewildered non-answer, and his face was near enough for Draco to very certainly decide that he’d hit the Firewhiskey just as hard as Draco had hit the brandy and cider. Whether that was good news or not remained to be seen, however.

“I – er – everyone’s been talking to me all evening, and I’ve had barely a chance to even look for you, you know,” Potter began slowly, the nearness of his voice sending a further rush through Draco’s veins. “I – I was wondering – I wanted to. Er. Malfoy, I mean, Draco,” triumph surged through him, “I wanted to ask if – wanted to tell you that…oh Christ. _Sod_ this. Kiss me?” It wasn’t so much as the question that shocked Draco as did the force behind it. Even if Draco were not as – well, not so thoroughly infatuated with Potter, he knew he’d have hesitated to turn down that earnest, lust-filled plea. “I mean, I know I’m not –”

Draco had never been so happy to cut off Potter’s speech in his life. He poured himself into the kiss, tugging at Potter’s robes with what was probably unnecessary abandon, as Potter seemed to be quite happy to derobe himself on his own. Draco basked in the sensation of magic caressing his skin, practically peeling open his trousers under Potter’s nimble hands, and soon the he was breathing in more of Potter’s sweaty, alcoholic breath, tasting it on his tongue as a very, _very_ welcome hand tugged at his cock.

It took rather a longer time for Draco to get his bearings and finally palm Potter’s hard cock. By then, Potter was moving down Draco’s neck, sucking at his slightly fevered skin with such moans and shudders as Draco had dreamed of at night in his rooms, and then, finally – there, oh, nice size, nice size, and so hard and pleasantly leaking, and Draco wondered muzzily what it would look like later on, because there _had_ to be a later on, with the way Potter was gripping him everywhere so hard that it hurt –

Draco’s release surged through him, making him writhe senselessly under Potter’s hands. For a moment, they were both still, breathing hard, and then Draco’s shaking hand was finding Potter’s cock again, and it all melded together in a dizzying storm of moans and groans and the sluggish taste of whiskey on Potter’s tongue. As Potter finally came into his hand, Draco sighed. Somehow, he had a hard time believing Potter was leaving soon – Holland, indeed. 

Not if Draco had anything to say about it, in any case. For now, Draco just kissed Potter and squeezed gently on his softening cock, enjoying the sticky feel of come.

*    *    *

“You don’t want me to leave.” 

Draco pulled his mouth off Potter’s leaking cock with a slow pop, marvelling, as he’d had increasing chance to do this night, at Potter’s scary amount of self-control. True, his tone was strained, and he was breathing rather quickly, but the words were low and calm enough to give Draco pause.

Not enough to restrain his slightly hoarse answer, of course. “Put simply, Potter, no.” Potter shuddered a little as Draco blew impudently on his twitching cock, and, for the next minute or so, made no intelligible answer.

“I – already arranged –”

Draco shrugged, blowing again. It seemed to have the most wonderful capacity to roll Potter’s eyes back up in his head in the most satisfactory manner –

“D-Draco – I – Mai –”

“No excuse,” Draco said lowly, stretching an idle hand up Potter’s bare stomach. He pinched a nipple, travelled briefly up Potter’s delicious nakedness to torture it with his teeth, then slipped down again.

“Hasseldorf – my contact – Durmstrang job,” Potter managed to pant out. Draco stopped then, in surprise.

“Did you say –”

“Please, Draco – _please_ , just suck me –” And Draco’s surprise was necessarily put on the back burner. In any case, it could definitely wait – from Potter’s highly arousing moans, he was on the edge –

A few minutes later, Draco was groaning his own release into Potter’s relentless hands. “I can come with you,” he panted shortly, after catching his breath, and then he blushed, more at how daft the double entendre sounded than at how Potter lifted dark eyebrows at him, obviously amused. “Unless Mai doesn’t want me around –”

“Mai likes you just fine, I think,” Potter said, shushing him. “And even if she didn’t…” Draco froze. “Well, I _like_ you. And it’s been ages since I –”

“God,” Draco sputtered, “This isn’t your first time since…?”

“No,” Potter said, eyes flicking up and down Draco’s naked, sticky body a little possessively. “I – well – I’m not sure you met Mai’s uncle on her mother’s side, but –”

“I knew it,” Draco muttered, withdrawing a little out of reflex. “He was fawning over you so hard –”

“ – but then that’s been over for four years,” Potter said firmly, touching a sticky hand to Draco’s shoulder. “Look, let’s get clean, shall we? We can talk this out properly, soon enough.”

Draco sighed disapprovingly, knowing already that he’d never tell anyone that he’d ever knuckled under to Potter like this about something he deemed so important to argue over. But perhaps he didn’t know, himself – perhaps it was all a jumble of Potter’s direct, yet pleading look, and the white flecks of come and the smell of sex and sweat lingering heavily on them both, and perhaps even the almost calming feel of Potter’s hand stroking his shoulder.

But Draco nodded and twisted easily, reaching out for his wand on the bedside table that was nearer to them both, feeling strangely satisfied even as Potter jabbed him in the cheek by mistake in an effort to get a troublesome, drying patch on one ear. In any case, Potter had said nothing about deferring the explanation for any later than now, and that suited Draco just fine.


End file.
